Giving Up
by allan
Summary: Bad habits.


            Instantly awake, Tinker reached under his bed and it wasn't for the night pot. The Remington pump-action had come from the member of a certain patch club and possessed neither stock nor numbers.  It had, however, come at Tinker's favourite price—free.

            Someone in his garage thought bikes came free too.

            For mister burglar-man, any runt with a shotgun would be scary, never mind two hundred pounds of bench-pressed muscle and bad attitude.  The expression on Tinker's swarthy face, framed around in sleep-tousled hair, left little doubt as to his convictions.  Bike thief = horse thief = dead thief.  

It got cold once the fire went out, so Tinker took a second to pull on his robe.  He snuck downstairs and peered through his kitchen window into the adjoining garage.  A hulking shadow was bent over his bike; no flashlight, whoever it was must've been able to see in the dark.  Time to enlighten him.

            "Hands where I can see 'em and stand away from the bike," snarled Tinker, fumbling for the light switch.  "I don't want to ding the paint when I ventilate you."

            The big thief turned around carefully as fluorescent tubes flickered into life.

 "I don't think that is very likely, sir," said an even, mid-western voice.  "Do you?" 

No, Tinker didn't think so one little bit, not even with a bazooka.  He stared from the emblem on that broad, costumed chest to its smaller version on his Super Vee's fatbobs.

"I… I'll have it stripped off, honest," Tinker stammered, sweat popping out on his brow.  "I didn't think you were for real, er, Sup… "

"Just call me Clark," the stranger interrupted.  "And I didn't come here about trademark violation--but now you come to mention it..."  He turned his head, and thin red beams shot from his eyes.  The offending decal bubbled, crisped, and flaked away into ash.

Tinker gulped.  Thank Christ he kept the tanks full to the brim with no room for vapour.  "Better come in before you set fire to the place."

Tinker made a bee-line for the liquor cabinet, extracting a bottle of emerald green fluid.  Clark took one look at the colour and tensed-up.

"Easy there, big guy," Tinker assured hurriedly.  "It's only home-made absinthe—see."  He took a hit straight from the bottle.  One hundred and ninety proof; Alfred Jarry would have been proud.

Clark smiled thinly as Tinker turned red, gasped, and wiped tears from his eyes. Humans were so fragile, so needy.

Tinker got a glass and poured in a generous measure of the 'green fairy', a teaspoon of sugar, then splashed in some water.  It went the colour of Castrol R.  Tinker could sure have used a joint but didn't think Clark would approve--besides he doubted his fingers were up to rolling.  Tinker's knees were shaky too, so he sat down, waving an invite to his omnipotent guest.

"Ah, well," Tinker began nervously.  "And how might I be of assistance?  I don't suppose you're in the market for one of my classic bikes."

Clark shook his head.  He slumped into the chair opposite Tinker.  This didn't look like a happy super-being. 

"There is someone I need to talk to," he said at last.

Tinker sipped his opalescent abs' warily.  This guy could talk with the president on demand; he sure didn't drop in to borrow the 'phone.

"The problem is…" Clark hesitated, "… she's dead."

Tinker choked on his drink.  "Hey, I'm not a certified necromancer.  Just a journeyman magician, apprentice really.  The bloke you need is Magic John."

Clark smiled.  "How do you think I obtained your address?  As I recall, he said he had the 'flu and couldn't even raise… well, anything.  He also mentioned I might be amused by your bike."

John, you bastard, thought Tinker, grinding his teeth.  I'll swing for you yet, just see if I don't.

He looked over the rim of his glass at Clark.  "Hope you're not fond of cats.  This is black magic, you know."

Clark scowled; it was like watching steel harden.  "I'm not lily-white either.  You shouldn't believe all you read in the funny pages."

Tinker's bladder believed he had to go to the bathroom; he'd been relying on that 'big blue schoolboy' image.

Clark helped clear the kitchen of furniture, moving solid oak around like bits of balsa.  With the carpet rolled to the wall, the chalk delineations of Tinker's pentagram were revealed.

"So, I just need the stiff's true name." Tinker said, rolling up the sleeves of his robe. "And whether it's upstairs or down?"

Clark stared at him blankly.

"It's double fee for angels, those snobs get so cranky about being summoned," Tinker elaborated.  "This is a professional consultation, right?"

Clark nodded absently; he was ready to pay anything.  Why else would a rational being come at midnight to Magic. 

He cleared his throat.  "Ah, downstairs, I believe."

The black cat convulsed, and was gone.  The cells of her blood would take longer to die—just enough time for...

"Lois!"  The name was torn from Clark's lips.

The young woman caught in the centre of the 'gram, turned to him.  Naked, of course, but riddled from crotch to chin as if some one had… Tinker glanced from the shot gun at his feet to Clark, and decided--triple fees.

"Don't Lois me, you…"  She choked on her rage "… you alien!"

Clark avoided Tinker's angry stare.  "I was a virgin, an innocent." he husked.  "Last of my kind, twice-orphaned, and alone in a big city.   I poured out my heart; told you everything."

She tugged at her perforated flesh, Hell hadn't improved it any.  "You didn't say you'd blow me apart."

Tinker winced at her awkward movements; hard to be graceful with a shattered pelvis.

"I just wanted to say I'm so terribly sorry."  Clark was on the verge of tears.  "I… I just lost control… I didn't know what it would be like."

Of course, Tinker realised, cringing.  Popping that cork would be worse than taking a flechette rocket up the arse.

Tinker looked at Clark; his tears were burning holes in the floor like hot solder—that would be extra too.  Still, if John had set this up as a test…

"Ah, Ms. Lane," he interjected.  "I'm Tinker, your necromancer for this brief spell.  Just think of it as a lucky break from your eternal torment."

She looked at him like he was shit on her shoes.  Women and the damned tend to have this problem with accountability.

"You are in Hell because of your sins," Tinker observed pointedly. "They clearly included fucking your way to the top…"  He glanced at Clark.  "… and over the top."

Perfectly capped teeth snarled at him--missing ones spoiled the effect.

"Actually," Tinker continued.  "Dying an innocent victim probably raised you a few notches up the pit; more than you deserved really."  

Tinker walked over to the fridge, opened it, and took out two glass carafes.  He set them on the floor. 

 "This one's ice-water, the other is holy water."  Tinker shrugged,  "your choice."  He dipped his fingers in the holy water.  "Wanna know what a sprinkle of this stuff does to the damned?"  Tinker looked pointedly at her ventilated torso.  "Perhaps you can guess."  

The other pitcher tinkled merrily at his touch.  "Ice-water, now there's a desirable commodity in the hot place.  Hmm?"

Lois ran a tongue over cracked lips, and then nodded reluctantly.

"Good girl," said Tinker.  "Now, Clark, I think this is your dime."

Clark pulled himself together; he didn't look so invulnerable now. 

 "I've… I've not been with anyone else since… " he forced out.  "I've accepted that I can't now."  Clark shrugged bitterly.  "So many things I can't control."

Man of steel, woman of Kleenex, eh? thought Tinker.  Unoriginal, but apposite.  Time to get on with the rituals of confession.

"Enough with the bleedin' hand-wringing, even the Pope knows you can't stop on the vinegar stroke."  Tinker turned to Lois who was being very good, and staring thirstily at the ice-water.

"You fuck some guy; you risk everything from pregnancy to aids.  You decide to fuck a super-being; you risk being incinerated like Semele with Zeus.  And don't play the peeled prawn with me.  I look up to the glass ceiling these days; all I see are knickers, and they ain't too clean." 

 He jerked a thumb at Clark; a picture of self-misery. 

 "Look, why not just forgive the jerk?  You know he'll never forgive himself," Tinker urged.  "Forgiveness of sins in Hell is rare as, well, ice-water.  I reckon it would be a real smart move up the ladder for you.  Gorra forgive to expect forgiveness, give and take I always say."  Tinker nudged the carafe almost over the chalk line with his toe, jiggling the ice-cubes musically, and very careful not to smudge it.

Lois licked her lips again.  "Okay, okay.  So I seduced the super-sap, it was pitifully easy and I'd have had him eating out of my hand.  Clark was always so completely self-controlled, I just never thought about that instant of orgasm."  She looked down at her ruined body.  "Guess the joke was on me--and yeah, I forgive you Clark, it wasn't really your fault."

"Now yer talking," said Tinker cheerfully, and let her have the pitcher.  The spell of dismissal was almost off his lips before she got it to hers.  But not quick enough to spare Clark the sight of water pissing out all the sperm holes.  Her howl of frustration was lost in clouds of steam--then she was gone.

Tinker put the carafes back in the fridge, but there were what appeared to be three ice-cubes left on the table.  They'd been coal in the kitchen scuttle a few minutes ago, intense heat and pressure had metamorphosised them into something harder, and much more valuable.

Yup, Clark had been most grateful, even given Tinker's Vee a quick X-ray inspection.  Touch of galling on the piston thrust faces; the RUB who's owned it before him must have lugged it during break-in—bloody big blouse.

Not that Tinker could brag.  Outside, Clark had turned, looking him carefully up and down.  Then he smiled nastily and twin lasers sprang from his eyes, lancing into Tinker's chest.

Tinker gasped, coughed blood, and fell back against the door jam.

"This, of course, will be our little secret," said Clark, looking up into the night sky and filling his lungs with its chill air.  "Smoking carcinogens and narcotics--you humans have the most destructive petty habits.  Not even I can prevent them, or crime, or your endless wars."

Tinker caught some breath of his own.  "Clark, there's not enough of you for us, and we can never be enough for you."  He spat and tasted iron.  "Playing God wasn't ever meant to be fun, it's plain cornball now.  Give it up already; this ain't Kansas and for sure you didn't plant us."

Clark hesitated, poised for flight.  "I'm obviously too big a sinner to play God."  He smiled, exposing perfect teeth that could munch diamonds like candy.  "On the other hand, I'm big enough to play anything I want--so perhaps you shouldn't mock bible-belt values."

Tinker stood alone in the doorway trying to hold down his robe as a sonic boom sounded far overhead.  Fuckin' Ada! he thought, shivering from more than the cold.  Gorra get a grip, gorra give this magic shite up.

Back inside he switched on the big ceramic fan-heater, sat at the kitchen table, and fumbled open its hidden drawer.   He was trying to quit.  His fingers definitely weren't up to rolling. 

The paper smoothed out like a sheet for the herbage to rustle into, twisted itself up tight, and then rolled over to where a kitchen match stood at attention, already lit.

Definitely going to give it up.


End file.
